


London Fairies

by Beatrix_Bilqis



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Canon Era, F/M, Fairies, Killing, Masturbation, Monsters, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sex, Strong Language, Violent Sex, What-If, street gangs, vulgar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-08 21:10:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17988593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatrix_Bilqis/pseuds/Beatrix_Bilqis
Summary: Rosalinda is a simple and naive orphan girl. She loves flowers, and books, and fairytales. She's always believed in fairies. She lives inside a little bookshop she inherited from her father, and her routine seems to have been inevitably controlling her life, until she finds a stray dog that she finds oddly similar to a mythological creature...





	1. Into Rosalinda's life

London, 1870. 

My name is Rosalinda, I'm 18 and I've been an orphan since 10. I work in a small bookshop in Covent Garden, the only thing I've inherited from my father. Mine wasn't exactly the richest family around, but we did survive decently. 

When I was little I used to watch my mother from the little attic above the bookshop, where we used to live. She'd spend entire days out in the garden, taking care of her beloved flowers. I remember watching her for hours, and sometimes even helping her out by picking some of them and creating little lovely bouquets we'd usually sell at the market on Sundays. 

She taught me the flowers' language, claiming that fosse it was the purest and best way to communicate one's feelings and thoughts.  
My father, instead, used to read me fairy tales before going to sleep. He didn't really believe in magic creatures, but my mom did. Whenever she'd tell us about them, my father and I would just listen to her with interest and admiration.  
Books and flowers had become my whole life.

In 1962 my mother contracted tuberculosis, that forced her to spend every day confined in her bed. We couldn't really afford a good doctor, but in that period he'd work his socks off every day, just to get the right medicines. 

Unfortunately, he died in a carriage accident. No more fairytales before going to sleep.

My mother got worse, and reached him up in Heaven a month later. No more flowers in the garden.

Many said I was crazy when I decided to keep the bookshop instead of the attic, but I couldn't look at that place without thinking of my parents, my heart couldn't stand such pain. 

I had already lost my flowers, but at least I got to keep the books. 

Now I work and live in the shop: behind the counter, under the stairs, there's a little cavity where I put some blankets and a cushion, and I usually sleep there; my belongings, even if there isn't much, are kept hidden in a chest under the counter. 

Every day I get up around dawn, get dressed, clean and display the books, write down the day before's sales and, finally, open the store.  
I usually close when the sun sets, since I enjoy very much looking at the twilight while taking long walks around London's streets and, occasionally, pay a visit to my friends who usually get out of their fabrics around that time.

My dearest friend name's Ethel, she's 20 and she works in a cotton mill. Her father died when she was a little girl, and since then she and her mother did everything they could to survive. 

She lives in a Whitechapel condominium, and even though she often suggested me to go live with them, I always refused. I would never be able to stand the thought of being a burden for someone, and even though she'd say that I am not, I know that it would make things even more difficult for them. Plus, it would take me around a hour to get to my shop from her place, so I'd have to get up even earlier and go to bed later. 

I would never be able to give up more sleep hours, since I already couldn't sleep that much.

One evening, after closing my shop, I went to Ethel's factory. "Oh, Rosalinda! Good evening!" she greeted me when she noticed me among the workers that were going home after a long day.

I hurried my pace and reached her.

"Good evening!" I smiled at her. 

I'd usually walk with her until we reached a little bakery. There, we'd usually stop and loot at the shop window, filled with delicious pastries, and then waited for someone to get inside or outside, so that we could smell the amazing scent of pastries through the door. 

"Oh, how I'd love to hold one of those warm _rice fritters_! Just looking at them makes my mouth water every time" my friend sighed.  
I smiled and brought her hands towards my mouth, breathing over her skin and trying to warm her up.

December was the worst month to spend in London. 

The air was usually very cold, and the wind made you feel cold even in your bones. But it usually snowed, so it was a nice view. 

"Father once told me about lands where it's always hot, and snow never falls. Isn't it a terrible thing, my dearest friend? We suffer this horrible cold and get to witness such wonderful thing, while some other never feel cold and can't even imagine what snow is!" 

Cold wasn't really a problem, once you got used to it. 

Ether smiled at me with her typical motherly smile, hugging me tightly; even though she was only two years older than me, she always felt very protective of me.

"Oh, Rosalinda! Always so enthusiastic about the littlest things!"

"I have to go now, see you tomorrow?" 

"Of course!"

Ethel walked away, towards Whitechapel, while I got inside the bakery.


	2. A not so fairytale worth beginning

I went inside the bakery. 

"Ah! Mademoiselle Rosalinda!" exclaimed cheerful Mathieu, Monsieur Gérard's son, the owner of the shop. They usually closed around that hour, but always waited for me to come by. 

I had become some sort of habitué, since I paid them a visit almost every day. 

That boulangerie was all the rage in London; every single day well dressed ladies with the most extravagant hats came by. Everyone wanted those delicious pastries, even if it was French-made.

" _Mademoiselle Fèe_! _Mademoiselle Fèe_!" I heard someone shout happily, and felt something heavy on my skirt. I looked down and saw little Adèle, Monsieur Gérard and Madame Monique's last daughter. 

"Adèle!" scolded her Madame, coming out of the kitchen breathless, trying to catch up with the little one and offering me an apologetic look. 

"Pas de soucit, madame!" I answered smiling; "Bonsoir, mon petite papillon!" I then greeted the girl. 

Even if I wasn't a wealthy middle-class lady, the Lerouxes grew fond of me as much as I did of them. The fact that they came from France wasn't source of good feelings by the other citizen, and their noticeable accent was often looked with contempt; this was the reason why I tried to speak that little French I had learned, trying to put them at ease.

"Alors, l'habituel pour mademoiselle fèe?" Mathieu asked, joking about the name his little sister used to call me. Around lunchtime the little one usually came by my shop, bringing me something to eat: her mother once told me in secret that she would get up early every morning just to cook everything by herself. And she was  
pretty good.

Whenever she came by, we'd sit in the hollow under the stairs, drinking tea and having something to eat, and I'd tell her the fairytales father used to read me.  
She always looked so fascinated by elfs and goblins and fairies, with her head laid on her hands and her elbows on her knees; she once told me that I knew a lot about these creatures, so of course I had to be one, too. 

That's why I'm _Mademoiselle Fèe_. 

"Merci, Mathieu!" I smiled while he gave me a little bag filled burnt puff pastries and many other discarder sweets. 

I waved them off and went outside.

It wasn't much, but would have sufficed as dinner, and I'd always share something with some poor girl I'd usually find on the street after the sun set. 

I was walking toward the bookshop when I suddenly noticed a poor dog left on the edge of the road. It was huge, and had long, fluffy black hair, almost like a mythical creature I used to read about. 

"Such a good dog! And so pretty, too. You look like the _Gytrash_!" I said, approaching the animal; it growled at me, but I shushed it sweetly and offered a burnt scone that was quickly taken from my hand and gobbled down. Then the dog licked my hands, thanking me, and I kneeled down and scratched behind its ears. I admired the raven hair and the pretty eyes, and it seemed to appreciate my attentions. 

The Gytrash had crimson eyes, but this dog's were hazelnut, with a hint of golden spark, and I was immediately taken aback by their beauty

Suddenly, something pulled me and I found myself trapped against a man's chest. 

I tried to yell for help, but he put a hand on my mouth, and the voice remained inside my throat; pulling out a knife, he laid it against my neck and chuckled with and unpleasantly hoarse voice that gave me goosebumps. 

"Such a hard day for a bloke like me, but Heavens! Such a pretty little lady like you truly is a gift for my eyes!" he said. 

Then he uncovered my mouth.

"Please, let go of me! I've got nothing valuable on me, I work in a little bookshop and am carrying just some burnt scones!" I begged him, trembling. 

He laughed louder.

"Who ever said something about your bag, _love_? I'm more interested in who carries the burnt scones" he explained. 

I widened my eyes, and my face seemed to have lost any color.

The dog was still there, growling at the stranger: it had sensed the danger. Then the animal jumped towards me, and I yelled, afraid to be hit; alas, it hit the stranger, and bit his face until blood came out of his flesh. 

The man howled in pain and covered his face with a hand, while he kept on blindly waving in the air the knife with the other. I backed away and fell on the ground. 

Then he opened his fingers, so that his eyes could look at me; he looked like an animal trying to attack me, but the dog came for my rescue once again, biting his arm. 

The stranger then stabbed the beast several times; they kept on fighting for some minutes, until my assailant surrendered and ran off, leaving the dog in a pool of blood.

The poor creature was badly injured and yapped in pain. It laid its hazelnut eyes on me once again, and once again I was unable to take my eyes off its, until the dog rolled his back and fainted in his own blood.

I saw some lights turning on and heard some voices, then looked at the animal once again. I couldn't possibly leave it there: it was big, and black, and they would have surely beaten it or even left it to die. I dragged the beast in a dark corner and tore the hem of my skirt, treating its wounds as much as possible, in order to stop the blood. 

After bandaging him, I put it on my shoulders, even though he was almost bigger and heavier than me, then took the burnt scones bag and went for my shop as quickly as I could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand here we are! I apologize for any French mistake in this chapter!


End file.
